The first thread, that Lily was in front of the nose, ran away like a track that puts on the horizon, a needle in a pincushion, or if you look in the knowledge that the goal is not the padding. We have the padding that holds a tiny world. Like ours. A world where the words embroider destinies, as waves of foam that leave marks on the sand. A world where the foam of the waves of spider weaves threads of drool. And the threads of a cloth, and so intersect the destinies intersect in nodes that are the occasions. Yes, there was a thread that ran like a track directly in the middle of a hidden destiny. And destiny has always been a story. Lily read it, because he had the ability to interpret the embroideries of the burr of the spider, so that, in the network in front of her, resembled words.
There was a small rose garden, where a girl who spent hours getting longer and spend more in the light of spring. The girl had a name fragrant and delicate as his skin and took care of most of the roses herself. He lived there alone. There was no longer the father who had been planting roses in the day of his birth. There was no mother, because its place remained only his madness. The girl took care of the roses because roses made her company. And waiting for spring to flush them out from the house of which only occupied three rooms on the ground floor. The folly of the mother lived upstairs, along with a nurse dressed in white face that changes every two months. The nurse gave a sleeping longer and longer to madness, because its late and cry less and less of lightning illuminated the white sheets covering furniture and chairs. Also, when lightning lit up with shouts upstairs, broke out the rough thunder of pain, slamming of doors that opened only to close it out loud. No one should ever enter or exit.
The girl was waiting for the spring. Why is the detached leaves fall from the trees and she could hear the moans. The winter was ashen and he knew of dust. She looked at the rose garden, rigid intentions in the cold dark of the drums, feeling rigarsi the face, like a glass of rain. The roses were his hope, in the winter. And hope blossomed fruit only in spring. And in the summer could still hope for the surprise of a second flowering. Because the girl who cared more about herself roses and roses came back to blossom, almost at the beginning of autumn. Why roses knew, somehow, company should do to that girl by the name fragrant and delicate. Before he returned in the autumn to fill the house of lamentation of the leaves. Before he returned to the winter rain rigarle of the face, while his eyes, two pits filled with dark desire, you light up only certain pending the arrival of spring.
And this is the story that ran on the first track to slip into the horizon of destiny and the destiny that he would find an end, perhaps we will never know. Why
fate is far from the nose of Lily.
